


Hypocrisy

by MadMoro



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Dirty Talk, Hypocrisy, M/M, Toulon Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:12:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadMoro/pseuds/MadMoro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert is hypocritical</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hypocrisy

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Лицемерие](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046959) by [MadMoro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadMoro/pseuds/MadMoro). 



Javert is hypocritical, and he knows it. He who mercilessly punishes prisoners for the slightest disobedience, he who shows to beasts their true place, has no right to bite a corner of pillow at night and to make desperate thrusts into his own fist. He has no right to imagine how someone from this faceless mass in red convict uniforms with rotted breath and dirty hands presses him in the corner, and shows the meaning of real humiliation, returning him to whence he came out - back to the gutter.  
This is hypocrisy. Because in the daylight Javert hates his night's desires, and hates their participants. He takes his anger out on the convicts. He humiliates them, mixes them with dirt, but never stops desire them. But they are cowards, they are skittish animals. They did not have enough power, enough rage to attack him, to take revenge for all blows with truncheon that he had done. Javert is looking for a strong man. He is looking for someone who will be able to break him, because he will never bend, he will never admit what strangles him at night. This desire does not allow him to sleep. This desire pushes him to the crime. He hides his hands under the blanket and rubs a palm against his cock. Javert has only a night to remove the everyday mask from his face, to afford himself the sordid signs of weakness. He, a strong spirited man, was weak in the face of his overwhelming lust.  
Red is the color of danger, the color of the prisoner's robe. He doesn't see the face, or rather, Javert doesn't imagine anyone in particular, and it is only the power, only a rotten whisper - a mixture of French and argot. If the filth had a sound - this whisper would be it.

_"You want this... you have a boner at the very thought of it, haven't you?"_

Yes, that's right. One thought is enough and blood rushes to the groin and a cock responds to the warm grip of a hand. One fantasy is enough for him. He imagines how rough hands press him against the wall, pushing his face into the crumbling red brick, hastily pulling down his trousers and how palm greedily draws between his buttocks...

_"...leaking as a port whore who saw a sturdy cock. But you are worse than whores. They earn for a living by this, but what you get from it?"_

A moment of pleasure and eternity of shame. Lower abdomen aches and Javert slides a clenched fist over his cock. Night after night, the same thing. The same fantasy. The same movements. His cock is almost a stone. Hard, throbbing piece of aching flesh. Javert is ready to hate his manhood only for the fact that it subjects him every damn night. What makes him a man makes him a slave for lust.

_"...you are not a man, you are bitch in heat... the bitch wants to breed, wants someone to fuck her and appease this fever in her blood. You think if you once get fucked for real, it will be enough for you?"_

Javert scratches chest with his short fingernails under the nightgown. It’s too stuffy for him. Of course, one time will not be enough. And the second will not be enough as well. Why else would he torture his own flesh every night and burn with hatred and shame every following morning? He spreads precum over his cock. He doesn't see what his hands are doing, so he allows himself to believe that they didn't belong to him. These hands belong to an unknown in a red robe. Rough from hard work, calloused, with dirt under fingernails. Each of their touch humiliates him, makes him dirty. Each of their touch lifts him up to the heavens and throws down to the ground. Oh, sweet shame!

_"You are snooping on us... listening how some of us fuck in the dark corners and bunks with creaking sound shake under the bodies' weight. You are watching how convicts locked in punishment cell wank alone. Does that turn you on?"_

Not half! Javert saw that once. It was mostly by accident than by design. He opened a small flap on the door in punishment cell just to check the prisoner, and saw something that he shouldn't have seen. That prisoner was in Toulon long before Javert had been transferred there. It seemed he had always been in Toulon. A thief, a fugitive, an animal. For the fourth failed attempt to escape he was whipped and locked in solitary for a couple of weeks. He sat in a corner on a straw mattress, trousers down, and moved his hand harshly over his cock. No slowness, no fantasies, just brute force, only the achievement of release. The convict frowned and breathed heavily, snorting clumps of saliva, which clung to his beard. Javert couldn't bring himself to leave his observation post. He eagerly watched, absorbed like a sponge every movement and clenched his own aching cock through rough fabric of his uniform. They came at the same time, Javert and that prisoner, but with the sole difference that the convict wiped his soiled with semen hand on the dirt floor, and Javert had to secretly wash his befouled uniform.

_"You think you're better than us. But you are just as we are. Pathetic, miserable, dirty. You can say whatever you want. And do the same. You can beat us with truncheon and punish us with whips. But you know very well that you are one of us...so do not overdo things. According to prison laws cocky fellow is put in place. I will show you yours..."_

Javert bites into the fabric of the pillow. His mouth is being filled with sour saliva. Javert's hips thrust towards his clenched fist. Release is close. He imagines how unknown man presses hips against his bare buttocks. He imagines arousal of his and his fever. He imagines how convict buries his nose into curve of Javert's neck and with quivering nostrils inhales acrid smell of his sweat.

_"Look at me..."_

Strong hands turn him around, face to face. But Javert still sees only a red robe with an empty number box.

_"...look at me..."_

Javert moves his hand like a mad, trying to bring the release closer. His underbelly twists into a tight clod. Face of the unknown con, usual blurred, at this time clearly appears before his eyes. So clearly that Javert can even see clumps of saliva which clung to his beard. Javert releases corner of the pillow from his mouth and with a soft muffled groan cums. His seed spoils sheets and blanket, but Javert doesn't pay attention to it. Convict's number is on the tip of his tongue. Javert's face burns with shame, although the body still burns with lust.  
"24601 ..." - Javert breathes out and powerless drops his head on the pillow. A thief, a fugitive, an animal. The most powerful and the most rebellious. But Javert is hypocritical. Now when his desire has a face, his hate has it too.  
He already hates this convict. With his frowned eyebrows, wide rough palms and wolfish eyes. Javert already hates his thought about this con and hates the day when he looked into that punishment cell. Javert closes his eyes. Now he sees only red under the eyelids, as if someone with a broad chest hidden under prison robe fenced him off from the rest of the world.   
Javert allows this red to shroud him.  
This is hypocritical.


End file.
